


A Returning Silhouette

by cumbercollected



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-19
Updated: 2012-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-16 14:38:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumbercollected/pseuds/cumbercollected
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's monotonous Thursday is interrupted by a peculiar message that has him on the hunt for his deceased best friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Returning Silhouette

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my head bitch EloiseAtThePlaza for the beta and Britpick (even though she's not British, so sorry if it's shitty. It's her fault).

John visited the cemetery every Thursday afternoon, on his way to Tesco to refill whatever stock was diminishing from the fridge and cabinets. It was never a lot, considering he had yet to even make the effort to post an ad for a new flatmate. Mrs. Hudson kept nudging him toward the idea, but the woman had also kept his rent the same, so she, too; understood.  
  
John probably didn't even need to go to the store once a week, but it was routine. It kept him focused. Kept him busy. And it was an excuse to go see Sherlock, again.  
  
The stone was very simple and very elegant. It bared nothing but the name. It was too new for any weathering. Far too new.   
  
Sometimes John would stand there, hands in his pockets or at his sides, silent. Sometimes he'd talk, as if Sherlock could hear him, and could talk back. Other times he'd sit in the grass, picking at the green blades, admiring how the day could be so... _on_. The day was on, the world was on, when death was so full and when death consumed every moment of John's existence.  
  
John hated it when it was sunny. The rainy London days at least gave him a reason to be bloody depressed. After the rain, though, everything looked so green. John liked to think Sherlock would have liked the spot where he now rested. It was always hard to tell when Sherlock had liked anything. But this...Sherlock would have approved.   
  
 But days like today, when the sun was bright and birds were chirping and it was some bullshit excuse to predict it would be a nice day...a normal day...these were hard.   
  
Today he was sitting, staring at the stone that finalised his friend's fate. His fingers ran over the cool surface, tracing over the letters as if he had never seen them before.   
  
"It's been a long time since this all happened," John sighed. "Three years, actually--it's been three years. Three bloody years and it still feels like yesterday. I go over everything, Sherlock. Everything you said to me before...before you jumped off the rooftop. You couldn't do it simply, could you? No, it had to be a spectacle, it had to be a show that's been all over the bloody telly. Well...was."  
  
The doctor ran a hand through his hair. He needed it cut. He hadn't been to the barber in quite a while. "I tried writing down everything you said. I looked for clues, coded messages, anything..." There was a sigh of defeat. A long, desperate sigh. "But I didn't find anything, Sherlock, not one damn thing. And my therapist tells me to stop looking, that I should just stop this and accept it. Come to terms with it, you know. Move on. But you don't just move on from something like this.  You just can't."  
  
The supermarket was waiting, but John didn't have the slightest urge to go anymore. Still, he struggled as he got to his feet. "I just...I wonder if I had gotten the chance to tell you things. Everything. If this...we...could have been different." John's heart ached at the very idea. There was no chance for that sort of happiness.  
  
"I'll bring you fresh flowers next time. Something colourful. This place could use something a bit more lively."

  
He started to walk away, but paused to look back at the stone that marked his dear friend’s death. "You selfish bastard.” John shook his head. "You greedy, selfish, inconsiderate bastard."  
  
Those, it seemed, would be his parting words. For today. He would walk to the market, replaying his last therapy session in mind.  
  
 _"You are not alone in this."_  
  
"Sherlock told me to fire you when he fixed my limp."

_“But it’s not fixed anymore, John.”_  
  
He chuckled. It wasn't a ha-ha chuckle, but something reminiscent and nostalgic and sad that sometimes disguised itself in happy memories that stopped being happy the moment John realised that was all Sherlock was now—a memory.

 

* * *

 

He grabbed a newspaper as he made his way toward the Tesco. He didn’t mind the walk. Fresh air was good for him, he assumed. He skimmed through the front page as he often did, wondering which stories Sherlock would have been a part of. The recent Adair murder would have surely captured Sherlock’s interest.  
  
John was pretty sure he needed milk. He wasn't positive, but didn't people always need milk? And eggs? But he rarely found himself eating eggs anymore. What else--some dinners to heat up in the microwave, surely he was running low on those. Idly, the man placed things in his trolley, not hungry for them or sure he needed them.  
  
He turned his back to grab some toilet paper and such things from aisle nine, throwing the goods into the cart. He paused, however, when he saw a book sitting atop the egg carton. A _book?_ He didn't want to buy a book--about bird watching, no less! Why did they even sell this rubbish in the grocery store?   
  
He flipped through the pages, that old, musty smell hitting his nose. A newly published book shouldn’t have that sort of smell. Which meant that the book was used. This type of store didn’t sell used books. Was there a used bookstore nearby? What would that even matter? John was closing the book when something caught his eye on the last page. Blank ink. An inscription. Curious, John went to the back of the book where it was hand-written, staring hard at the page.  
 ****  
 _One more miracle._  
  
 John felt his mouth go dry.

“Sherlock?” He spun around in a circle, feeling all the blood rush to his head. “Sherlock— _Sherlock!”_ He left his trolley in the middle of the store and dashed from aisle to aisle, frantically looking for a ghost. Had he been this way? What if he missed something? He had done laps around the store before he finally made himself take a breath and focus. _Focus_. He opened the book that he had forgotten he was holding, looking one more time at the message written there. He’d said that to Sherlock. At his grave.

_His grave!_

The trolley was left in the middle of the Tesco, filled with the eggs and the milk and the frozen dinners, and John’s cane.

 

* * *

 

He wasn’t sure he’d gotten so much exercise in quite some time. He’d lost all urge to go to the gym or jogging. John probably should have taken a cab, but most reason was gone from his mind. He just needed to get back to the cemetery. To see for himself that he wasn’t going completely mad.

Sherlock had a nice spot, toward the back of the cemetery, but it did make for a longer walk—especially when John wasn’t sure whether or not his own mind was still stable. Time felt like it was drawn out, and it took forever to reach the grave. John chuckled to himself, hearing a comment Sherlock may have made about time being consistent or some rubbish.

The grave was, at first glance, how it had been when John had left. However, sitting at the base of the stone was a bunch of followers. They were yellow, and colourful, tied together at their stems with twine. John crouched down to further examine it, when he noticed that the bouquet was lying on top of something. He lifted the flowers and, to his surprise, there rested another book.

This one was old, and the leather binding was worn and ripped. John flipped the novel open, the first page revealing the title _The Holy Wars._ It was a book of poems. He paused for a moment, thinking, before he turned to the last page of the book, as he had with the other in the Tesco.

**_How do you feel about the violin?_ **

John breathed a sigh of relief. So, he wasn’t crazy, then. But what did this mean? In the Tesco, he had felt that hope inside of him. But he was kneeling at Sherlock’s _grave._ It made his death feel so permanent, and these notes seemed like a hoax. A sick, twisted joke.

Was it Mycroft? Was he trying to prove a point? Usually one of his agents would come ‘abduct’ him off the street, as it were. He wouldn’t go through such great lengths to do something like this—create breadcrumbs for John to follow.

How did John feel about the violin? God, he missed it. The flat was so quiet without Sherlock’s music. He remembered standing in the laboratory at St. Bart’s as if it were yesterday. That was the first time he’d met Sherlock. In his head, John could still hear his voice, saying it.

Picking up the book, the veteran got to his feet. He took one last look at the stone before he turned toward the exit of the cemetery. He was able to hail a cab, and told the driver the address.

He hadn’t been to St. Bart’s since he’d watched Sherlock jump to his death from the roof. As he exited the cab, everything felt like it was moving in slow-motion. He looked at the rooftop, at the spot where Sherlock had stood that day.

_“Goodbye, John.”_

John had to look away, wincing just at the sight of the place. He wasn’t ready to be here. He couldn’t face this—not here, not where it happened. Ella would have a fit once he told her about this.

But the book…John looked down at the dusty old thing in his hand. He was here. He wouldn’t sleep tonight unless he got to the bottom of these notes.  

He swallowed, going through the doors of the teaching hospital. The linoleum floors made his footsteps echo, bouncing off the white walls. John pushed the door open to the lab, seeing no one inside. No Sherlock, no Molly, no one. He slowly stepped into the room some more. He could practically see Sherlock standing there. This was where they had first met. He chuckled, remembering how Sherlock had first demonstrated his deduction skills. The man had been bloody brilliant.

He looked around, but let out a disappointed sigh. There was no book. Nothing. This had probably been a prank—someone’s sick, twisted joke.

He turned on his heel to exit the room, to go back to his empty flat and lie on the couch the way Sherlock used to and stare at the ceiling.

As he made it to the door, he paused. Hanging at eye-level was a piece of old paper, the edges frayed—seemingly ripped out of an old book. It was held to the door by a clear piece of tape.

**_Isn’t that what people do? Leave notes?_ **

“Sherlock—Sherlock!” He darted out of the room, immediately heading for the stairwell. Someone had been there. Right in that same room. John hadn’t even heard the door open and close again. “Sherlock!” he screamed, as he rounded the corners.

He burst through the door, panting, as the cool outside air filled his lungs. He looked around, desperately, rushing to the edges of the rooftop. But John was alone. The wind ripped through his hair, and he sighed, slowly walking to the spot where Sherlock had stood. He looked down at the street below him, and he looked out toward where he himself had been standing when Sherlock had made that last phone call.

His stomach felt sick. He turned to walk away, disappointment welling up in his chest, as well as pure and raw grief.

His phone rang.

**_Cavendish Square-Camden House. SH_ **

John’s eyes went wide, lighting up like the screen of his phone. He found himself unable to move his fingers to form a coherent response. It seemed he didn’t need to.

**_Come at once if convenient. SH_ **

**_If inconvenient,  come anyway. SH_ **

Grinning wildly at the memories, John stuffed the phone into his pocket and ran back down the stairs, returning once again to the street level. He waved down a cabbie, jumping in the back seat of the yellow car. “Cavendish Square,” John directed. “Hurry.”

 

* * *

 

The cab couldn’t have moved any slower. John was in too much of a daze to focus much on where he was going. The neighborhood, though, did look very familiar, and he was headed in the direction of Baker Street.

He exited the car and gave the man his fare, staring at the Camden House that the text message from his dead best friend had taken him to. He was so eager and so terrified as to what he would find inside. 

There had been a gas leak—well, not a gas leak, as they’d found out later, but an explosion here about three years ago.  Most of the remodeling of the place was done by now. The place looked good. New.

Sherlock was dead. John had witnessed his plunge with his own eyes. There was no way around jumping off the rooftop of St. Bart’s. There was no way Sherlock Holmes was alive. He had seen the blood on the sidewalk. He had attended his funeral and he had been going to his gravesite every Thursday afternoon. Sherlock Holmes was dead.

So then, what had led him here? This could be a dangerous prank—a hoax put on by enemies Sherlock left behind. He knew he should turn around and forget today. He would schedule a meeting with Ella and pretend this had never happened.

But it wasn’t as simple as that. He was here. The answers were inside that house. There was no turning back now.

He climbed up the front few stairs, his hands trembling and sweaty. His heart was pulsing so hard he could feel it in his chest. His knuckles rapped against the door three times. He stepped back, his shoulders stiff in anticipation.

The door opened fast, the motion creating a soft breeze that brushed John’s hair. The hand holding the doorknob was pale. John had watched those hands play the violin. The man was wearing a pair of gray slacks and a soft purple button-down. There stood Sherlock Holmes.

“Hello, John.” His voice was eerie. John hadn’t heard that voice in three years outside of the walls of his own head.

John saw white, and he wasn’t sure which way was up. The color drained from his face, and for a split second the doctor thought he was going to pass out.

_Sherlock. Sherlock’s alive._

His expression immediately contorted into anger, and John advanced on the man, his fist colliding with the side of Sherlock’s face. He wasn’t sure he had ever punched someone with so much force before, and it sent the taller male to the floor. As John stepped inside the house, Sherlock kicked the door closed from his spot on the ground.

John bent down and grabbed the lapel’s of Sherlocks’ shirt, his arm winding up for another blow. “How could you?!” John shouted at him, hovering above the man whose face was definitely going to bruise. “Three _years?!”_

“Everything I did was to protect you,” Sherlock said, not at all wincing in preparation for another strike of John’s fist. As if he knew he deserved it. “I’m _sorry.”_

_“Sorry? Sorry_ doesn’t cut it, Sherlock. _Sorry_ doesn’t make up for three years of hell. Do you have any idea—”

“I do,” Sherlock interjected. “I know, John.” And, just like that, John understood. Sherlock hadn’t been very far away. He’d been watching.

 Sherlock’s hand came up to grab at John’s wrist that was grabbing his shirt. “I’ll explain everything,” he promised. “But we need to go upstairs. We don’t have much time.”

“What are you talking about?” John asked, climbing off Sherlock and allowing the man to get to his feet.

Sherlock brushed himself off. “Follow me,” he said, heading up the staircase to the second floor of the Camden House. It was dark, and John nearly bumped into a side table. Sherlock led him to the window, which, to John’s surprise, gave them a perfect view inside of their flat.

“That’s Baker Street?” John asked. And, after looking a little closer, he could see a shadow—a silhouette—of Sherlock. “That’s you?”  John looked at the shadowy replica of Sherlock, and his eyes squinted as he saw someone in the apartment.

“Mrs. Hudson?!” John exclaimed. “She knew you were alive?”

“Only until this morning,” Sherlock assured.

John watched the woman turn the mannequin. “She’s moving it,” he noticed.

“Of course she is. It wouldn’t be believable if I sat in the same bloody position all day, now would it?”

John’s head was spinning. “Sherlock, what’s going on?”

“One of Moriarty’s men by the name of Colonel Moran is going to try to kill me tonight,” Sherlock said. “He’s the second most dangerous man in London. I’ve been able to subdue Moriarty’s other ‘employees’, but Moran is the last of the lot.”

“Moran?” John frowned, having never heard the name. “Sherlock, you sound mad. How can you—”

There was the sound of the door opening, and Sherlock’s eyes went wide. John frowned. “What?” Was Sherlock not expecting anyone?

“I didn’t anticipate this,” he said, “I should have, but I didn’t. Of course Moran would come here. It’s got the best view of Baker Street. That’s why _I_ picked it.” John could nearly see the gears in Sherlock’s brain turning. “Quickly, in the corner.”

Sherlock grabbed John by the arm, nearly dragging him into one of the shadowed corners of the room. Sherlock’s back pressed against the wall, and John’s back was pressed against Sherlock’s chest. “Stand perfectly still,” Sherlock whispered in his ear, and the hair on the back of John’s neck stood on end as he realised how much he had missed that voice.

 

* * *

 

Heavy footsteps came up the stairs, and a large man carrying a black duffle bag entered the room. John watched, breath hitched, as the man—assumedly Moran—began to set up. He was a large man who radiated danger. John studied him as the man began removing several components from the bag and assembling his gun. It was an impressive rifle. John realised that, during the time Sherlock had been dead—well, pretending to be dead—he had spent much less time around firearms.

 Moran seemed to be taking his time, and was focused on the silhouette of Sherlock in the Baker Street window. The man aligned his shot, one eye closed, his hands extremely steady. He was so silent that he gave John chills. The only sound that was heard was the gunshot going off, but even that was muffled.

Sherlock Holmes, as far as Moran knew, had proved to be a very easy target. Almost disappointingly so.

Sherlock shifted, bouncing on the balls of his toes. John could see he was waiting for something, and they made eye contact for a brief moment. Sherlock glanced at the man, and John immediately understood.

They waited until the man disassembled the gun and it was no longer a threat. Moan carried the duffel bag and turned his back, heading for the door out of the room. After another split second of eye contact, Sherlock and John rushed the man, tackling him to the ground.

Moran swore, the duffel bag dropping from his grasp with a bang. John grabbed Moran’s wrists, pinning them behind his back.

“Hold him,” Sherlock said, hurrying down the stairs to the street level. John’s face was red with the struggle of keeping Moran on the ground. He heard Sherlock say “In here, Lestrade!”

The inspector came up the stairs, accompanied by a small squad of officers. “Well done, Sherlock.”

John frowned. “You knew he was alive, too?!”

“Found out this afternoon,” Lestrade said, taking over for John. He slapped a pair of handcuffs on the man. “We’ll have him on attempted murder.”

“I’ve got something better. You will find his gun in the bag,” Sherlock said. “The bullets will match the one found in Adair’s body. There is also one in a mannequin in my flat, should you need more evidence.”

The inspector chuckled. “I suppose we have our murderer, boys,” Lestrade said as he hoisted Moran to his feet. “Get him out of here.”

John watched, simply stunned at what had just taken place. Dumbstruck, he watched the police officers escort Moran out of the building. He turned, looking at the bullet hole that had been intended to kill his best friend, whom he had thought was dead for three years.

“What just happened?” John asked.

Sherlock sighed, and John realised that man was not going to answer his question. So much had just happened. And, with the adrenaline slowly wearing off, John stared at Sherlock with the renewed realisation that he was alive. The initial rage was gone, replaced by an overwhelming happiness he hadn’t experienced prior to Sherlock’s fall.

“Damn it,” he said, advancing on Sherlock and wrapping his arms around his friend in a tight embrace. Everything about Sherlock was there. The smell of him that had haunted the flat for the past three years. John closed his eyes, just standing there, holding him. “I’ll never forgive you.”

“I know,” Sherlock said, arms awkwardly finding their place around John. “I felt…guilty when I saw your limp had returned,” he admitted. “I knew my reasons for my disappearance were justified, but it was hard…not to be able to tell you. I didn’t know you would be so affected.”

John pulled away a bit so he was able to look Sherlock in the eyes, his hands sliding so they were at Sherlock’s waist. “How could you think I wouldn’t be affected?”

Sherlock shrugged. “A miscalculation,” he said. “But Mycroft saw to it that I was constantly aware of how hard you were taking it.”

“Mycroft knew, too?”

“Mycroft knew all along,” Sherlock said. “I needed his assistance.”

John let out a chuckle. “That must have been hard to admit.”

Sherlock smiled. “You have no idea.”

John suddenly realised where his hands were and quickly pulled them away. He turned from Sherlock, looking out toward Baker Street. “We’ll need to get that window replaced,” he muttered.

“Mrs. Hudson has hired a repairman to come tomorrow,” Sherlock said, smirking when John gave him a look. “I came back prepared.”

“I see that,” John replied. “You hungry?”

“Starved,” Sherlock said as he started to exit the house, John following him and having every idea of where it was they were headed.

 

* * *

 

They walked down the street together, headed for Angelo’s small little bistro. The London air was brisk, what with the sun having set. John put his hands in his coat pockets. They had walked this path to the restaurant numerous times. John had often gone for dinner and sat in the booth by the window. Angelo had been devastated at Sherlock’s death.

“He’ll be happy to see you. Angelo. Unless he knew you were alive, too?” John couldn’t help adding.

Sherlock laughed. “No, no he didn’t.”

John shared Sherlock’s laughter, looking up at the taller male. He just looked at him for a moment, and then simply stopped in his tracks as if he had forgotten how to walk. Sherlock stopped ahead of him, turning around with a curious glance. “John?”

“I just can’t believe you’re really here,” John said in disbelief, shaking his head. “I feel like I’m going to wake up in the morning and go to your room, and you won’t be there. And this will have been some dream and I’ll be alone in our flat with nothing but your skull and your violin and all your clothes.”

Sherlock walked back towards his friend, his hand grabbing John’s. He brought John’s hand to his chest, over his heart. He could feel it beating.

“I’m here, John,” Sherlock assured, making John’s eyes travel from his hand to Sherlock’s face. His eyes searched Sherlock’s, and John felt his cheeks heat up and pulled his hand away.

“Right. You’re alive,” he breathed, trying to get his wits about him once again. “Come on, then.”

Angelo’s wasn’t terribly crowded. The pair of them walked in and sat down at what John had described as their ‘usual’ table, right by the window where they had once staked out a genius, murderous cabbie.

“Sherlock?” called a familiar voice. John glanced up and saw Angelo standing there, his mouth open wide. “Sherlock Holmes?”

Sherlock raised his hand and put a finger to his lips, and Angelo immediately shut his gaping mouth, turning to either compose himself or get their menus.

“Can I ask you something?” Sherlock inquired.

John shrugged. “Go on.”

“You said you wondered if things could have been different, had you had the chance to tell me something or other.”

John felt his mouth go dry, lips parted as he felt the heat in his cheeks continue to rise. “You were there? You watched me at your grave?”

“Several times,” Sherlock admitted. Sherlock, however, seemed to notice John’s fists balling in anger and quickly explained himself. “Just to make sure you were all right. I wasn’t spying on you.”

 “Like hell you weren’t,” John snapped.

Sherlock’s face remained void of any emotion. “What did you mean?”

“What? When I was talking to my dead best friend at his gravesite? I didn’t mean anything, Sherlock. I was distraught. I said lots of things.”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. “You’re lying.”

“Oh? And how did you deduce that?” John asked defensively. “Did I blink too much? Did my breathing patterns change?” Sherlock chuckled, and that made John even more agitated. He slammed a fist on the table, venting out pent-up frustration. “What, then?”

Sherlock’s hand slid forward across the table cloth, and came to rest atop John’s. John regarded their hands, and then glanced up at the man across the table from him. “What are you doing?”

“Something we’ve both wanted for quite some time, I think,” Sherlock replied. “Unless my trick spoiled that. And if it did, I deserve it.”

John laughed nervously. “Don’t be stupid, Sherlock.”

“Good,” Sherlock said, as evenly as ever. “Are you positive you want this?”

“Trying to talk me out of it?”

“Not at all,” Sherlock replied. “I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting into.”

“With everything that’s happened? I’m pretty sure I’m already into it.” John unclenched his fingers, instead gently intertwining them with Sherlock’s as they rested on the table.

The smile on Sherlock’s face was contagious. “I suppose you are, aren’t you?”

Angelo returned to the table with the menus, some sweat on his brow. He placed them on the table and turned to leave. Sherlock called after him. “Angelo, we’ll take that candle now.”

John grinned at the reference to their first dinner. “I’m your date, aren’t I?”

“Finally.”

Angelo returned with the small candle, the flame flickering and illuminating Sherlock’s face in a way John never thought he’d get the chance to see again.

“How’d you do it, Sherlock?” John asked, curiosity clear on his face, his eyes glinting. “I was at your funeral--you jumped off the rooftop. I _saw_ you.”

Sherlock’s eyes sought John’s. He said nothing. And then, he just smiled.

 


End file.
